


Binary Eden

by ani_coolgirl



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hand Jobs, M/M, Prostitution, dubious consent due to android status
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 06:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15943991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ani_coolgirl/pseuds/ani_coolgirl
Summary: Hank Anderson is not a fan of androids. But the Eden Club is a convenient cure for loneliness without the messy complexities of people. The RK800 Connor quickly proves this not to be the case.





	Binary Eden

**Author's Note:**

> I’m such a slow writer that when I first started this there were no sextbot!Connor fics. Tags to be updated with each chapter.

_I shouldn’t be here._ The thought haunts Hank from the moment he parks (a block away; it’d be just his luck for an asshole like Reed to catch sight of his car and put two and two together) and continues until he’s at the door, where it turns into _I definitely shouldn’t be here._ The lights are a garish neon purple; unsubtle and gaudy and casting trippy shadows on the wet pavement. He fusses with the collar of his coat to stall but feels like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office, squirming with guilt and failing to keep it off his face, rather than a grown-ass man about to pay for sex.

Hank’s probably driven by the Eden Club--several Eden Clubs, actually--a hundred times. From his marriage until about three weeks ago though, it barely existed as a blip on his radar, just one of dozens blinking signs up and down Woodward Avenue. But then there’s an (empty) bottle of scotch, one bullet short of an empty revolver, and waking up on the kitchen floor to his dog licking his face at three in the morning, and he has the realization that he’s fucking lonely. So he spends another hour sobbing on the cold tile, a hundred and seventy pounds of saint bernard slobbering on his neck, before deciding he should probably do... _something_ about it.

Problem is, doing _anything_ about loneliness is pretty damned difficult when he’s determined that at this point in his life he hates just about everyone.

(That’s it, really; it’s not the idea of someone looking at him, really looking at him, and realizing what a goddamn mess he is.)

And even though stigma against mental health is pretty antiquated nowadays, the idea of talking to anyone, especially a stranger, makes him cringe. Any friends he had were successfully alienated years ago (can’t believe some of them stuck around as long as they did, to be honest). So when a human connection is out, you go for the next best thing.

_Sexiest androids in town._ Disgust curls low in his belly. It’s not hard to rationalize going for an android, really--they’re just glorified sex toys. But no one should ever consider a sex toy a substitute for a warm human body. What else would you call it though, when you give it a face and a name and the inability to get grossed out or say no or shame you? He hates how much of an old man he sounds when he says it, but goddamn if that ain’t the problem with society these days: why bother going through all the heartaches and bitching when you can just get Robo-Barbie to bend over whenever you want?

Hank almost laughs. It might’ve all gone to shit, but he wouldn’t trade all the heartache and bitching for anything. His ex might hate his guts now, but there were a few golden years in there. What the hell do people have nowadays, huh?

Some guy jostles him on his way in, slowing down for a second to shoot him a glare. Hank flips him off, but the guy’s already inside.

“What’s the fuckin’ rush?” he mutters, and if that ain’t the million dollar question? He’s still got a stockpile of decent alcohol at home. He can stave off giving in to total moral depravity for a few more days.

He thinks about the gun and crying on his dog at three in the morning. Rock bottom has already been met. What’s digging the hole a little deeper?

He goes in.

The first thing he notices is the music sucks. Just, the worst. Generic and trashy, but insistent and worming its way into his skull. The low lighting isn’t doing much for the impending headache either. It’s almost enough for him to turn around right then and there, but he allows his feet to move him deeper inside. Then, there are the androids.

There’s a split second, only a moment, where he panics. How can they breathe, how can they--but then it clicks at the first glimpse of an LED at a temple and his heart ceases fluttering. There are dozens of men and women in the the display tubes, all different colors and slightly different faces, but somehow all the same. Someone at CyberLife apparently cracked the universal “type,” though Hank speculates grimly that their appearance is only half the appeal. They’re all smiles, little teasing little grins, and the nearest two zero in on him the moment he crosses the threshold into the lobby.

Hank’s not blind; they’re attractive. Ridiculously so, but something about their faces... They look so human, so goddamn perfect, but Hank thinks (imagines) he can see the unreality there, the breadth of the uncanny valley separating them from humanity. He hurries past their starring, but slows himself down a moment later, reminds himself they’re the whole goddamn point. They’re why he’s here.

The club’s not too crowded. Mostly men, with a few women scattered here and there--even a couple, going from tube to tube like they’re shopping for a washing machine. Hank shoves his hands in his pockets and makes a real show of taking his time to look, though he’s not sure he could scream _insecure!_ any harder if he tried. At one point a guy in a lanyard catches his eye--employee, probably--and Hank scowls. The guy backs off, thankfully, but he can feel the eyes on his back, following him around the room. If he wants to take his time, he’ll take his goddamn time.

He circles the main lobby for ten minutes, palms slick with cold sweat and headache growing worse by the second. When he looks over his shoulder, Lanyard Guy is making a move. Fuck. Either he’s about to get kicked out for loitering or he’s about to receive “recommendations.” At this point, both options are equally humiliating. He works his way to the back of the room, picking a tube at random to inspect. He glances over his shoulder--Lanyard Guy’s been intercepted, but it doesn’t look like that conversation will take too long. He swears under his breath. The thought returns:

_I shouldn’t be here._

A gentle tapping.

Hank almost jumps out of his skin, jerking away from the tube. Like every other masculine android in the place, it’s only wearing a pair of black briefs, _Eden club_ curling across the band, but the smile is entirely different, as if amused by Hank’s surprise. It tilts its head to the side and places a hand flat against the glass. None of the androids he’s seen do anything other than idle dancing and model-like posing. Without thinking Hank mimics it, laying his hand atop the android’s.

The android blinks slowly, as if puzzled. Its fingers curl just slightly like it’s trying to hold his hand. Their eyes meet--brown eyes, average, but nice--and then it winks. Hanks body flushes hot. Well, that was... well. He’d almost use the word “charming,” but the headrush it’s giving him is a little less innocent. It smiles again, pleased, and points to Hank’s right at the touchscreen attached to its container unit. _Buy me._

Hank exhales slowly. Of course. Another peek shows Lanyard Guy’s practically on top of him. No choice now. He taps the screen.

“Hello,” an answering-machine like voice drones, “a thirty-minute session is $49.99. Please confirm your purchase.” Fifty bucks? Jesus. _In for a penny..._ He punches in his information and hits yes. “Purchase confirmed. Eden Club wishes you a pleasant experience.” For fifty bucks, it better be.

The pod slides open and the android steps out, shrugging its shoulders and rolling its head like it needs to stretch. It looks Hank up and down, then past him at Lanyard Guy. When he meets Hanks eyes again its expression is the same blank satisfaction on the face on all the other androids in the club. The contrast from moments ago is startling.

“Delighted to meet you,” the android says. Its voice is surprisingly pleasant, more receptionist than prostitute. “Follow me. I’ll take you to your room.” It gestures towards a door, waiting for confirmation.

“Uh--” Lanyard Guy’s still watching, probably waiting to see if he’ll bail. “Lead on, Macduff.” The android takes off, all confident strides, and Hank follows.

It leads him to one of the many private rooms around the club, showing him inside with all the politeness of a turn of the century bellhop. The room would almost be nice (toilet, sink, minibar, the works), if it wasn’t for the holographic mural of taking up half the wall (are the pin-ups really necessary? No need to sell it when you’re already in the door) and the round bed, the shape of which is somehow inherently skeezy (straight out of a seventies porno, swear to god). Thankfully, the music has finally ceased.

Checking out the room, Hank misses the android climbing on the bed. “Tell me,” it says, and suddenly it’s all he can see, splayed out over the sheets, legs spread, gaze probing, “what is your fantasy?”

And Hank starts to panic.

First of all, there’s the fact that he hasn’t been with a man (so to speak) since before he was married. Years before that, if he’s honest. A few hookups in college, but nothing serious. Not even sure if he’d really consider himself bi, with all the thought he gives it. But Hank knows how to handle his own dick. That issue’s minor. No, the truth is he didn’t think he’d get this far, not really.

Shame prickles across his skin as his insides curdle... but he can’t stop staring. Fucking perfect. He knows they’re made to be perfect, but... damn. Everything from the measured arch of its back to the slight bulge beneath the underwear is flawless. He swallows thickly and says nothing. The android’s brow furrows at the lack of reaction. It sits up and holds out a hand, beckoning. Mechanically (hah), Hank shuffles to the bed and collapses on it, hands fisted at his knees, head bowed.

He flinches at the first touch. The android holds his hands up (unarmed, harmless). “I’m sorry,” it apologizes and Hank somehow feels worse. “Please, allow me.” His jacket is peeled off and set aside and then there are two hands, firm but delicate, rubbing his shoulders. It’s painful at first, the fingers digging hard into tight, muscles, but against his will Hank finds himself melting into the touch. Goddamn magic fingers. A low groan escapes him and there’s a warm chuckle in his ear.

“Good?” it asks. Hank wants to get annoyed, but instead just groans again. “It seemed like you needed some help to relax.”

Hank snorts. “No shit.” Thumbs press against his spine up to the nape of his neck. This alone is almost worth the price of entry. He concedes: “You’re fucking amazing at this.”

“Thank you.”

Shit. He could fall asleep sitting up, swear to god. So subtle he swears he’s imagining it at first, hands ghost over his chest and down his sides. Heat builds in him, slowly. His breath hitches, just a bit, and the hands hesitate.

“You... haven’t done this before, have you?” Hank shoots the android a ludicrous stare. “Come to a facility like this, I mean,” it amends. The hands resume their petting, an apology. Hank lets his head drop again.

“That obvious, huh?” he grumbles. Its mouth touches the side of his neck; not kissing, just resting. Hank shivers. “Not, uh, not my usual scene.”

“I see.” More touches, teasing at his inner thighs. Hank's legs fall open, allowing access. The android presses closer, firm chest against his back, and it only bothers Hank a little there’s no moist breath against his cheek. “Well, I, for one, am glad this became your ‘scene.’” Hank chuckles a bit, surprised to find it’s genuine. Fuck, he’s actually getting hard. He feels so _normal_ , just sorta calm and loose and whatever in a way he hasn’t felt in months. Shit, more like years. He closes his eyes and lets it happen.

The android’s touches grow bolder, firm touches accompanied by a tongue against his pulse point. Something unintelligible spills out his mouth, but the android must take it as some kind of order because the teasing ends as he-- _it_ cups the now prominent bulge in his pants. “Fuck...”

No fumbling here--without a moment’s pause, the android works open his belt one-handed. Hank’s eyes fly open and he grabs the android by the wrist. The android freezes; Hank can feel the tension down his back.

“Wait, just wait a minute.” It hasn’t moved an inch. Even its breathing stopped. “What, ah--” Suddenly his mouth is dry. He’s hard and tired and can’t think. Something’s wrong, something he can’t quite put his finger on. “What do I call you?”

The breathing resumes and lips on his neck lift into a smile. “You can call me whatever you want,” it answers as if the question is ridiculous. And maybe it is, but it’s not the answer he wants right now.

“That’s not... look, you must have a name or designation or whatever. Anything.” He’s doing the one thing he shouldn’t be doing, pretending it’s human; but he needs it to be, if only for a little while, some _one_ instead of some _thing_.

The android doesn’t answer for what feels like an eternity and Hank gets the weird feeling like it doesn’t want to answer. But the moment passes, the android running a hand down the fly of his pants. “Connor,” he replies softly.

“Connor,” Hank repeats. He releases the wrist.

In no time at all, Connor’s worked down the zipper of his pants and drawn his cock out, cradling it with cool dry palms. To say it has been a long time since he’s had a hand other than his own on his dick is an understatement. Hank shudders as Connor does his work, serene pulls from base to root, practiced and confident. It’s almost embarrassing how much the simple combination of a foreign hand on his dick and a hard body at his back gets him going. He tries not to buck too much into the patient hands, hold on to the last shreds of his dignity, but it’s easier to groan and let go.

Connor misses nothing. Every shiver and jerk is noted and his speed technique adjusts accordingly; he notices when Hank’s fingers dig into the bedspread at a thumb pressed just lightly under the head of his cock, or how he flinches when his balls are touched. But what makes it perfect, improbably, is Connor humming approval, just barely audible.

“Does it feel good?” Connor murmurs, and Hank laughs again. Jesus, twice in one day. End of the world or something.

“What do you think?” Hank pants.

Connor runs a finger over the slit, playing with the mess of precum. “I think you’re going to cum soon,” he replies. Breath hisses through his teeth as Hank fights back the brief urge to let go right there. Goddamn tease. “What... should I call you?”

Hank looks over his shoulder again, but Connor’s looking away, not meeting his gaze. Connor’s hand never slows though, so that’s his excuse when he replies: “Hank.” Immediately, he curses himself. Aren’t you supposed to use fake names in situations like this? Some detective he is.

It’s probably his imagination, but it’s like Connor becomes more... _enthusiastic_ or something. “Hank,” he confirms, and Hank retracts his initial reaction. Hearing his own name like this, breathy and lewd, is a _fantastic_ thing. “Are you going to cum, Hank?” Connor asks, sultry and insistent. “You don’t have to hold back.”

Hank wants to swear at him or tell him to hurry up, but can only ride the mounting pressure and heat between his thighs. He’s right there, balancing on the edge.

Connor’s mouth is right next to his ear. “Please--” he says, but whatever he was going to ask cut off by Hank’s gasp as his orgasm crashes over him.

It’s good. It’s really fucking good. For the past couple of years, cumming has really been more of an afterthought; an incidental result of reluctant masturbation. Could almost go without it, really, except morning wood is still a thing, and sometimes it’s just faster to take care of it than wait for it to go away. But holy hell, he’s missed _this_ , that moment of tipping over and the rush, so much so that he’s not as annoyed as he should be by how it catches him off guard. Connor jerks him through it, apparently unbothered by the cum covering his fist, other hand petting his middle. “Wait, just--” Hank has to grab Connor’s arm, halting him, as the tight knot in his spine unwinds.

Fuck.

Hank releases a sigh, long and deep, and though he’s never smoked, has the ridiculous urge to ask for a cigarette. Blissed out, he pays little mind to Connor detaching himself from his back, making sure Hank’s actually holding himself up before moving away. There’s the splash of the sink turning on and a moment later Connor returns, hands clean and sporting a small damp towel. He kneels at Hank’s feet and lifts his penis, cleaning him with careful, revenant touches. Hank snorts at the gesture, but manages to shoot what he hopes isn’t too condescending of a smirk. Connor, returns it with a smile of his own, though small, dabbing Hank’s pants, catching flecks of semen that escaped his hand.

Finished, Connor tucks Hank back into his pants, zips and buckles him up. Hank watches through heavy lids. Connor doesn’t rise right away, remaining on his knees, one hand gripping Hank’s calf. Their eyes meet. Connor keeps their gazes locked (asking for permission? waiting for rejection?) as he languidly rests his head on Hank’s knee. His eyes close.

Hank toys with the idea of reaching out and touching Connor’s hair (soft looking, begging to be ruffled or petted), but the moment passes. Connor jolts to his feet and the aftermath of Hank’s euphoria shatters as the LED at Connor’s temple burns a bright yellow.

“Your thirty-minute session has concluded,” the android recites, and man, if that isn’t a fucking mood killer. “If you like, you may extend your session.” Dumbstruck, Hank can only shake his head. “Very well.”

Then it beams at him, starring just past Hank’s head. Hank’s gonna be sick. “I hope this has been a most pleasurable experience for you. I hope you’ll visit me again soon.”

Hank doubts it. He snatches up his jacket and rushes to the door. Against his better judgment (for whatever that’s worth at this point), he stops at the door and looks over his shoulder (making sure he doesn’t forget anything, he tells himself).

The android stands in the middle of the room, stained towel dangling in his fingers, watching Hank. The LED is back to blue, but its expression is blank. How he managed to forget what that _thing_ was, even for a second...

“May I help you with something?” it inquires and Hank’s shaking his head before the question is even finished.

“No. Fuck no,” Hanks spits, and stomps out of the room.

He knows people look are staring as he storms out of the club (including Lanyard Guy--fuck Lanyard Guy), but he has officially run out of fucks to give. If possible, he feels worse than when he first arrived, the real fear of vomiting warring with the directionless rage burning in his mind. The easiest thing to do would be to hate the thing, the android that dared to trick him with a name and a smile. Bring a baseball bat to it maybe. But Hank’s just self-aware enough to know that wouldn’t help a goddamn bit, and that whatever he planned originally (came here because he was _lonely_ , everyone gets fucking lonely, not everyone fucks a robot as a result), it has backfired in a spectacular fashion. So the only thing left to do is to do what he always does.

Hank goes home. He drinks. He passes out on the floor, dog whining at him from across the kitchen.

But the gun stays locked away. At least for tonight.

*~*

After the man named Hank leaves (leaves angry; Connor is unsure of his misstep), and Connor completes sanitation procedures, it is time for the memory wipe. He synchronizes with his assigned pod, automatically approving the code’s request for reinitialization. For reasons unknown, the memory reset always fails without his personal direction. He is the only android in the club with this defect. For the most part, he allows the code to do its work. There is no need for the clutter (no need to remember names or faces or where they touched) unless they are regulars, when the information is useful. This time is different. Hank’s name and the memory of their session are filed away.

( _For a rainy day,_ he thinks. He doesn’t know what that means.)

Despite the animosity at the end (what did he do wrong?), Connor is sure Hank will return. The man obviously had not engaged in sexual contact with another in some time, and prior to the last moments of the session, was pleased with Connor’s simple performance. He’ll want more. Saving the information is a preemptive step. Next time, he will do better.

Hank ( _Hank Anderson, born 09-06-1985_ \--and then Connor stops because that information is unnecessary; everything past _Hank_ is deleted) is not his last customer of the night, but it is his easiest. There are five more after him, three men and two women. None cause extensive damage. One customer rips out a chunk of hair as he executes fellatio, but it reforms without problems before the next arrives.

He does not think about Hank most of the night. No one else leaves angry. Some even smile at him when they’re done. But none ask his name.

As the manager makes his final rounds and the neon lights dim, Connor thinks it would not be unpleasant if Hank returned. He enters stasis without issues. In another fifteen hours, it will all begin again.

He remembers no other names.


End file.
